If I actually believed that the progress of human understanding depended on our crop of contemporary novelists, I would shoot myself.
Establish a closing ritual. Know when to stop working. Try to end each work day the same way, too. Straighten up your desk. Back up your computer. Make a list of what you need to do tomorrow.
I have never written anything in one draft, not even a grocery list, although I have heard from friends that this is actually possible.
I am kind of like a diesel. It is the cyclist in me.
People in a novel can be understood completely by the reader, if the novelist can be understood completely by the reader, if the novelist wishes; their inner as well as their outer life can be exposed.
It is never possible for a novelist to deny time inside the fabric of his novel: he must cling, however lightly, to the thread of his story, he must touch the interminable tapeworm, otherwise he becomes unintelligible, which, in his case, is a blunder.
A novel is based on evidence, + or -x, the unknown quantity being the temperament of the novelist, and the unknown quantity always modifies the effect of the evidence, and sometimes transforms it entirely.
The historian records, but the novelist creates.
Expansion, that is the idea the novelist must cling to, not completion, not rounding off, but opening out.
The hours Facebook users put into their profiles and lists and updates is the labor that Facebook then sells to the market researchers and advertisers it serves.